


Practical Application

by ratherastory



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything's still wrong. Dean pulls a drunken confession out of Sam, but he's pretty sure he doesn't know how to fix it. No plot, just angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practical Application

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Note: I had a sudden flash in my head of Sam telling Dean "I was testing a theory," and this came out of it, and I couldn't not write it.  
> Neurotic Author's Note 2: I was re-watching Season 5 (after re-watching all of the show, because I'm totally not obsessed), and related to A/N 1, I started wondering about that scene in which Lucifer tells Sam that if he kills himself he'll just bring him right back. It's Sam: what are the odds he's just going to take that lying down?  
> Neurotic Author's Note 3: I don't really like how this turned out, but I'm posting it anyway. No beta, no revision, nothing. I just kind of slapped it together because it's my birthday and I'm feeling self-indulgent. So there. If you do think it sucks (and it might, I am way too biased to think straight, and maybe I should have had some alcohol to go with Sam's), please be nice about it. :P  
> Neurotic Author's Note 4: (Christ, is there a rule about how many of these I'm allowed to write?) I am apparently allergic to happy endings, too. Sorry.  
> Neurotic Author's Note 5: I have since reconciled myself to this piece. I'm not sure why I didn't like it before. *shrug*

“I got it,” Sam is pulling their duffel bags out of the trunk of the Impala, not waiting for Dean to help or even come close. He ducks into the room, head down, shoulders hunched, the way they always are, these days. It's no longer the Sammy-slouch that Dean is used to, the posture that telegraphs I-am-harmless to witnesses, that makes enemies think he's weaker than he is. It's something else, something Dean can't quite figure out, and he's not sure what to do about. Isn't sure that he ought to do anything about it.

Things are off-balance. Not that this is anything new, but after just a few weeks of being apart from Sam, Dean can't quite find the old rhythm that they had before, even when the rhythm wasn't quite right. Now it feels like they're completely out of synch, lacking even the uneasy coexistence they had when they were both keeping secrets they thought were too terrible to share. He opens his mouth, realizes he has nothing to say, or at least nothing that won't come out sounding like blame, closes it again. He doesn't know why he keeps trying to talk —usually Sam is the one who wants to do the whole girly sharing thing— talking has never worked before. Only now Sam isn't talking either, and when Sam stops talking, that's when it's time to worry. Sam only clams up when things are really going wrong, and he doesn't remember the last time Sam even tried to bring up anything important.

He hasn't told Sam that sometime in the future he says “Yes” to Lucifer. He isn't planning to, either, but the words stand like a wall between them, so thick that sometimes he can't see his way past it. He lets himself fall backward onto the lumpy mattress of the bed nearest the door, spread-eagled, fumbles for the remote on the table between the beds.

“God, I hope they have something worth watching on TV.”

They're in limbo, waiting for Castiel to show up, hiding from all the other angels, worrying about Bobby. They can't go far, because it'll take Cas that much longer to find them when he does need them, and after less than ten minutes in this place Dean is already starting to feel like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. The surprise is that Sam appears to be just as impatient about all this as him, just as restless, if not more so. He slumps in a chair, toying idly with the cordless mouse for his laptop, staring vacantly at the screen, one knee bouncing under the table. Eventually he shoves his chair back, stands up, reaches for his jacket.

“Where you going?” Dean regrets the words the minute they leave his mouth, but it's too late to take them back now. He sees Sam stiffen, watches his shoulders creep up toward his ears.

“I'm not going far.” It's not an answer, and they both know it.

“Want company?”

Sam shakes his head, doesn't meet his eyes. He hasn't looked Dean in the eyes in a very long time. Time was, it was Dean who used to avoid Sam's gaze, because he knows Sam can read everything that's going on in his mind, and hated every minute of it. Now he thinks Sam is afraid of what he might see, and he might be right about that.

“I'm going to get a drink. Saw a bar down the street. I'll take my phone, okay?” he 's defensive, bordering on angry, and Dean can hear the underlying I'm-not-going-out-to-get-a-demon-blood-fix-so-quit-looking-at-me-like-that. He sighs.

“Whatever. Knock yourself out.”

The door doesn't quite slam, and Dean is left with sole possession of the remote. Not that he didn't have it before, but he was half-hoping Sam would bitch at him about his choice of channels. Sam's been extra-careful lately not to bitch at Dean about anything. He doesn't fight him on anything: not his choice of food, not how loudly he plays the same tape over and over in the car, nothing. Dean's started doing small, obnoxious things, just to test Sam's limits: leaving wet towels where Sam will step on them, using up most of the hot water in his showers, cheating on whose turn it is to do laundry Just to see how far Sam is willing to be pushed. Turns out it's pretty damned far. They don't even play rock-paper-scissors anymore to decide who gets to do the crappy jobs, or who gets the back seat of the Impala when they can't find a motel. Sam agrees with whatever Dean says, and it's driving Dean batshit crazy.

No use in stewing about it. He flicks through the channels, settles on some “Bewitched” re-runs playing all in a row, lets his mind go blank, wishes it was “I Dream of Jeannie” instead. He nods off halfway through an episode with the New Darren looking poleaxed yet again (real witches aren't nearly that understanding, he thinks idly), dreams that Endora has put a curse on him that keeps his mouth sewn shut. He wakes up to a dark room and a crick in his neck from where he's been lying awkwardly propped up against the headboard. He sits up, twists his head around until he feels his neck crack with a satisfying pop, feels his back go loose. Sam's not back, and a look at the digital clock tells him it's been more than just a little while.

He grabs his phone, selects Sam's number out of the list, tries not to think of the dozens of times in the past few weeks he deliberately scrolled past it. It rings once, twice, three times. Goes to voicemail. It's not off, or it would have gone directly to voicemail. God damn it. He deliberately doesn't think of all the times he didn't know where Sam was and everything went to shit. This isn't like that. Totally different. He tries again, and this time Sam picks up.

“Dude, do you know what time it is?” Dean cringes at his own words. He's turning into a shrill housewife. Nag-nag-nag.

Sam's tone is annoyed. “What are you, my babysitter?”

“Where are you?” Dean matches him, annoyed tone for annoyed tone.

“Where I said I'd be,” he's definitely slurring his words, and just how much has Sam had to drink, anyway? Kid's a lightweight, for all he's twenty-three feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. “Lost track of time. Sorry.”

Dean tries not to twitch at the familiar word. “Okay. I was just...” Worried. Not a good word, too loaded with implications. “I'll see you later.”

“I'm not —doing anything wrong.”

“I never said that.”

“Whatever.”

The line goes dead, and Dean's left staring at his cell phone. Great. He flips the phone around in his hand, toys with it. Sam's more than old enough to get his sorry drunk ass home on his own. Except that Sam has always come to haul his brother home when he's been three sheets to the wind, has always been the one to keep him upright, hold him so that he's never been in danger of drowning in his own puke, undress him, feed him aspirin and water and put him to bed. He grabs his keys, pulls on his boots, shrugs into his jacket, heads out into the chilly autumn air.

He's a little surprised to find Sam at the bar. He's not sure why he was expecting to find him in some dark booth at the back, but somehow it all feels wrong. The bartender, an older guy in a white t-shirt and a leather vest over black jeans, gives him an appraising once-over.

“You with him?” he jerks his chin toward Sam, who hasn't so much as turned his way yet.

“Something like that. He's my brother.”

“'Bout time. He's been here for hours, hasn't said more'n three words to me except to order drinks. I was about to cut him off. We're closing in fifteen, anyway.”

“Appreciate it.” He sidles up to the bar, nudges Sam with an elbow. “You about ready to go, Sasquatch?”

“'M fine here.”

“Sure you are, except the bar's closing, so it's time to go.”

Sam shakes his head, but slips off the stool, wavering on his feet. Dean puts out an arm to steady him when it looks like he's about to keel over sideways, and Sam tries to shake him off, only to list even further, and he catches himself on the bar. “Getoffme.”

“Dude, you're wasted. Let's go.” He grabs Sam by the elbow, and nearly gets his ribs broken for his trouble.

“Don't touch me! 'M fine.”

“Fine, suit yourself,” Dean raises both hands in a gesture of surrender.

He pulls back long enough to watch Sam try to pull himself together and stumble toward the door, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, the other stretched out in front of him to keep him from knocking over any tables or, worse, falling over entirely. He's impressed when Sam actually makes it outside before doubling over and puking against the side of the building. That transition from seated to standing is always a bitch. He waits until he's pretty sure his boots aren't in danger anymore, saunters up and hauls one of Sam's freakishly long orangutan arms over his shoulders, hauling him upright, and this time Sam doesn't resist.

“Come on, Gigantor. Let's get your sorry drunk ass home.”

Thank God the bar isn't far away. Sam is freaking huge, and drunk, and heavy, and this is the last time Dean is ever dragging his stupid drunken carcass back from anywhere, because he weighs a ton and he's pretty sure he's going to be permanently crippled by this. He dumps Sam onto his bed, tugs off his boots.

“Dude, you have to help me out a little here. You're not exactly five years old anymore.”

Sam's either passed out or just drunk enough not to care. Dean rolls his eyes, lets out a huff of frustration that reminds him of Sam, goes to get water and aspirin from the bathroom. Regardless, his brother's going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow. When he gets back, Sam hasn't moved, one arm over his eyes, breathing hard. He's never seen his brother like this: usually when he's drunk Sam gets even more talkative, maudlin and weepy, and then Dean gets to tease him for being a girl. This silence is beginning to creep him out.

“Okay, kiddo. Drink up, and we'll get you out of those clothes. No drunken sleeping in your clothing, or you're going to hate yourself even worse in the morning,” he cringes, realizes what he's just said. “Uh, ignore that last part.”

It's like trying to undress an oversized, really wasted marionette, but eventually he manages to pull off Sam's jacket and shirt, makes a snide remark about Sam being on his own when it comes to taking off his pants, stops cold as he stares down at Sam's chest. Tentatively he reaches out with one hand, traces his fingers gently around a puckered scar right above his heart. He switches on the bedside lamp, sits on the bed, shakes Sam by the shoulder, roughly, until he opens his eyes and fixes Dean with a glare.

“Quit it.”

“Sam, what is that?” he puts his hand back over the scar.

“Nothing,” Sam tries to roll away, but he's drunk and Dean's not and it's easy to keep him pinned.

“Sammy. Where'd you get that scar? It looks like a bullet wound.”

“Leave it.”

“No. Tell me.” His heart is doing a weird jumpy thing inside his chest, his mouth dry. There's a scar from a bullet wound right over Sammy's heart, and he has no idea how it got there. Jesus.

“Dean. Just... don't.” There is finality in the tone, but Dean won't, can't leave it alone.

“Tell me.”

For the first time in weeks, Sam's eyes lock with his, and Dean almost reels back from the expression in them. Sam laughs mirthlessly. “I was testing a theory.”

“What?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Dean...” Sam's eyes are pleading with him now, his expression perilously close to defeat, to despair.

“Please, Sammy.”

Sam sighs quietly, sags under Dean's hands. “I told Lucifer I'd kill myself before I ever let him have me as his vessel.” Dean feels his blood run cold. “He said he'd just bring me back, as many times as it took... so I decided to test the theory. Turns out my premise was flawed,” he says bitterly.

“God, Sam...” Dean's eyes trace the contours of his brother's body, taking in a myriad of details that weren't there before. He used to know Sam's scars as well as his own —he helped stitch up most of those injuries, after all— but now a whole new topography is stretched out beneath him, a relief map of new scars. He wonders if Lucifer left them there on purpose, the thick white tissue on the inside of Sam's arms, stretching from the wrist to the crook of his elbow, the pucker marks above his heart. He wonders how he managed never to notice them, now that they're laid bare before him. He digs his fingers into Sam's arms where he's still pinning him to the bed, reassuring himself that his brother is still there, still solid beneath him, can't wrap his mind around the thought that he could just as easily have found him in a pool of his own blood in some dingy motel bathroom.

Abruptly Sam shoves him off, having apparently recovered his coordination, and turns away, curling in on himself on the bed. “I tried... It just —it didn't work. I'm sorry.”

He's apologizing. Again. Except that he's apologizing for not being dead, and Dean wants to scream and shake him and hit him as hard as he can for being so goddamned stupid and pig-headed and thinking that dying was going to fix anything.

“Quit saying that.”

Sam flinches, doesn't answer. Dean can hear the unspoken “I'm sorry.” Apologizing for apologizing about something he shouldn't be apologizing for. Christ. He buries his face in his hands, still perched on the edge of Sam's bed, looking at his brother's back. More scars. He doesn't want to know how many times Sam “tested” his theory. His hand hovers over Sam's shoulder, wants to pull him into his arms like when Sammy was a little kid and a hug could make everything better. He pulls back, settles for dropping a blanket over him so he won't get cold.

“Get some sleep, Sammy.”

He wants to tell him it'll be better in the morning, but it's a lie, and he's trying to break himself of the habit of lying to Sam. Honesty is a two-way street. He kicks off his own shoes, stretches out on his bed.

He spends the rest of the night staring at the shadows on the wall.


End file.
